So, I'm in an editing phase and it's TERRIBLE editing is FOR SQUARES, but it also means I'm not writing new stuff as much for a bunch of different reasons
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It is just stupidly cliche to be attracted to a model.
Stupidly, stupidly cliche.
Steve should have gotten over this a lifetime ago--he did, actually, he swears. Scrawny Steve Rogers, who practically had to stand on a box to be level enough with his easel to sketch, absolutely got over the sort of uncomfortable adolescent reactions that inevitably popped up (poor choice of words) in those early life drawing classes. Steve now--Steve who hit his growth spurt after high school and inadvertently beefed up in the army--Steve now should absolutely not be more interested in checking this guy out than sketching the interesting play of muscles and scars on his back.
And yet.
The instructor calls for a break and the model relaxes, rolling his really unfairly impressive shoulders and twisting his hips over his unholy amazing ass, and Steve looks away quickly, focuses on glancing over at Natasha's easel.
"Wow, Rogers, could you be a little more blatant?" she asks. He blinks up at her.
"What?" he asks.
"In how hard you want to hit that, I mean," she clarifies. "Could you be slightly more obvious? Because I don't think you can be."
"Nat," he says.
"I don't think it's possible," she continues, and Steve glances over to the model to see if he can hear her. He's got his back to them, covered, now, by a blanket. Steve tries not to be disappointed by that. "You should ask him out."
"I'm not going to--" Steve glances at the model again, then leans over, voice pitched lower. "I'm not going to randomly ask out a model. It's...rude. I've been staring at his naked body for an hour."
"Yeah, and you were supposed to be sketching it, not staring at it," she adds. "So clearly, you need to ask him out, or else this is just pathetic pining and not the start of a classic meet-cute."
Steve pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.
"I don't know why you're so insistent on setting me up with someone," he says, deftly deflecting the subject.
"Because you're hot as hell and I'm tired of the, 'oh god, all my friends are dead or tortured or overseas, woe is me' stoic thing you've got going on. You're in art school, now. You're living your dreams. You've gotta throw yourself out there before the experience passes you by, you know?"
Natasha, who is cagey about her past, who doesn't trust anyone on campus, who spends more time pretending to be someone she's not than taking time to make friends, is probably not the best person to be giving him this lecture. Steve thinks they only got as close as they have because they're the only non-traditional full-time students in the program, though Natasha's medium of choice is sculpture rather than drawing. And despite any bonding that may or may not have happened over a cagey long weekend trapped on campus together, Nat's still mum on whatever tragedy happened in her past that left her with no family, fewer friends, and missing years between eighteen and twenty-four.
Something of all of that must show on Steve's face, because Nat rolls her eyes.
"I'm perfectly happy being a mysterious loner," she tells him. "You're obviously not. Thus, me trying to hook you up." She adds a little flourish of a gesture with the charcoal still between two of her fingers. Steve tries not to sigh. "Come on, Rogers, the guy has 'romantic comedy lead' written all over his gorgeous, clean-cut face. You were made for each other."
Steve chances another glance at the model, which is stupid--it's not like he's not going to be staring at him again after the break. But when he looks over his easel, the model is looking right back, smiling a big, friendly, winning smile, and then taking the automatic responding smile on Steve's face as an invitation of some sort and--oh god--walking over to them.
Swaggering over to them. Which is doing some interesting things to what the blanket does and doesn't cover.
"Hi," Steve says. He feels like his smile looks weird. He hopes it doesn't.
"It's always weird doing these things," the model says. "The artists usually don't stick around to chat on the breaks and it's not like I can run out for a coffee myself."
Steve looks around the room. It's basically cleared out, save for him and Nat.
"Ha," Steve says. "Yeah, uh--" He doesn't have to look at Natasha to know she's rolling her eyes at how pathetic he is. "It's...yeah." Oh god. "Do you--uh, I could get you a cup of coffee if you want?"
"Oh my god," Natasha says out loud behind him. Steve resists lowering his head into his hands.
"Nah," the model says, seemingly oblivious to Steve crashing and burning right in front of him. "I don't really need a coffee now."
"Oh," Steve says. "Uh, okay. Good."
"Might need one later," the model says. "You know, after class. If the offer still stands."
Steve swallows. He thinks, fleetingly, of Peggy, of Bucky, of the friends he left behind and the millions of chances he lost before he was even old enough to drink, legally.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it does."
"Great," the model says. "It's a date. I'm Sam, Sam Wilson."
He offers his hand to Steve, and Steve does not stare at the new skin that's exposed by the drifting blanket. He shakes, like a normal, not terminally awkward human person.
"Steve Rogers," Steve says. Sam has warm hands--calloused, too. Strong. Steve swallows again. "And this is Natasha Romanov."
"Nice to meet you," Nat says from behind Steve. "Hope to see you around more often."
"Me too," Sam says. Steve is a grown man--he doesn't swoon.
The professor reappears, glancing at his watch, and Sam lets go of Steve's hand. Steve hadn't even realized Sam still had it.
"Better get back into position," Sam says. "But don't think you can get out of that coffee later."
"Believe me," Steve says. "I'm going nowhere."
"Good," Sam says. "I'm looking forward to it."
"Me too," Steve says, and grins at him, ignoring the aura of I told you so coming off of Natasha next to him.
He feels a little dizzy from how fast this has moved--from crush to date in no time at all, and only an hour until the actual date.
Sam drops the blanket and moves into position and Steve feels his eyes widen again.
That is, if he can manage to get through the next hour without embarrassing himself, first.
Stupidly, stupidly cliche.
Steve should have gotten over this a lifetime ago--he did, actually, he swears. Scrawny Steve Rogers, who practically had to stand on a box to be level enough with his easel to sketch, absolutely got over the sort of uncomfortable adolescent reactions that inevitably popped up (poor choice of words) in those early life drawing classes. Steve now--Steve who hit his growth spurt after high school and inadvertently beefed up in the army--Steve now should absolutely not be more interested in checking this guy out than sketching the interesting play of muscles and scars on his back.
And yet.
The instructor calls for a break and the model relaxes, rolling his really unfairly impressive shoulders and twisting his hips over his unholy amazing ass, and Steve looks away quickly, focuses on glancing over at Natasha's easel.
"Wow, Rogers, could you be a little more blatant?" she asks. He blinks up at her.
"What?" he asks.
"In how hard you want to hit that, I mean," she clarifies. "Could you be slightly more obvious? Because I don't think you can be."
"Nat," he says.
"I don't think it's possible," she continues, and Steve glances over to the model to see if he can hear her. He's got his back to them, covered, now, by a blanket. Steve tries not to be disappointed by that. "You should ask him out."
"I'm not going to--" Steve glances at the model again, then leans over, voice pitched lower. "I'm not going to randomly ask out a model. It's...rude. I've been staring at his naked body for an hour."
"Yeah, and you were supposed to be sketching it, not staring at it," she adds. "So clearly, you need to ask him out, or else this is just pathetic pining and not the start of a classic meet-cute."
Steve pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.
"I don't know why you're so insistent on setting me up with someone," he says, deftly deflecting the subject.
"Because you're hot as hell and I'm tired of the, 'oh god, all my friends are dead or tortured or overseas, woe is me' stoic thing you've got going on. You're in art school, now. You're living your dreams. You've gotta throw yourself out there before the experience passes you by, you know?"
Natasha, who is cagey about her past, who doesn't trust anyone on campus, who spends more time pretending to be someone she's not than taking time to make friends, is probably not the best person to be giving him this lecture. Steve thinks they only got as close as they have because they're the only non-traditional full-time students in the program, though Natasha's medium of choice is sculpture rather than drawing. And despite any bonding that may or may not have happened over a cagey long weekend trapped on campus together, Nat's still mum on whatever tragedy happened in her past that left her with no family, fewer friends, and missing years between eighteen and twenty-four.
Something of all of that must show on Steve's face, because Nat rolls her eyes.
"I'm perfectly happy being a mysterious loner," she tells him. "You're obviously not. Thus, me trying to hook you up." She adds a little flourish of a gesture with the charcoal still between two of her fingers. Steve tries not to sigh. "Come on, Rogers, the guy has 'romantic comedy lead' written all over his gorgeous, clean-cut face. You were made for each other."
Steve chances another glance at the model, which is stupid--it's not like he's not going to be staring at him again after the break. But when he looks over his easel, the model is looking right back, smiling a big, friendly, winning smile, and then taking the automatic responding smile on Steve's face as an invitation of some sort and--oh god--walking over to them.
Swaggering over to them. Which is doing some interesting things to what the blanket does and doesn't cover.
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"Hi," Steve says. He feels like his smile looks weird. He hopes it doesn't.
"It's always weird doing these things," the model says. "The artists usually don't stick around to chat on the breaks and it's not like I can run out for a coffee myself."
Steve looks around the room. It's basically cleared out, save for him and Nat.
"Ha," Steve says. "Yeah, uh--" He doesn't have to look at Natasha to know she's rolling her eyes at how pathetic he is. "It's...yeah." Oh god. "Do you--uh, I could get you a cup of coffee if you want?"
"Oh my god," Natasha says out loud behind him. Steve resists lowering his head into his hands.
"Nah," the model says, seemingly oblivious to Steve crashing and burning right in front of him. "I don't really need a coffee now."
"Oh," Steve says. "Uh, okay. Good."
"Might need one later," the model says. "You know, after class. If the offer still stands."
Steve swallows. He thinks, fleetingly, of Peggy, of Bucky, of the friends he left behind and the millions of chances he lost before he was even old enough to drink, legally.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it does."
"Great," the model says. "It's a date. I'm Sam, Sam Wilson."
He offers his hand to Steve, and Steve does not stare at the new skin that's exposed by the drifting blanket. He shakes, like a normal, not terminally awkward human person.
"Steve Rogers," Steve says. Sam has warm hands--calloused, too. Strong. Steve swallows again. "And this is Natasha Romanov."
"Nice to meet you," Nat says from behind Steve. "Hope to see you around more often."
"Me too," Sam says. Steve is a grown man--he doesn't swoon.
The professor reappears, glancing at his watch, and Sam lets go of Steve's hand. Steve hadn't even realized Sam still had it.
"Better get back into position," Sam says. "But don't think you can get out of that coffee later."
"Believe me," Steve says. "I'm going nowhere."
"Good," Sam says. "I'm looking forward to it."
"Me too," Steve says, and grins at him, ignoring the aura of I told you so coming off of Natasha next to him.
He feels a little dizzy from how fast this has moved--from crush to date in no time at all, and only an hour until the actual date.
Sam drops the blanket and moves into position and Steve feels his eyes widen again.
That is, if he can manage to get through the next hour without embarrassing himself, first.
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Oddly, Steve is one character I seem to ship with everyone.
And Sam making the first move is just perfect. <3
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